


Treasures

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [11]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:01:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needs you/just for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treasures

Thursday, December 23, 1999 (cont.)

Numbers rifles through one of the disorganized piles of paper that cover a map of Duluth on the coffee table, mumbling to himself. They may be deciding on the order they’re going to kill these men but the map, papers, and cups of coffee combine to create the atmosphere of planning a very boring road trip, with circles around various locations tourist traps. The sloppy oval marking Kobrick’s apartment might as well be designating a roadside stop for the world’s largest ball of twine. It makes no difference to either of them, really.

Wrench turns one of the sheets over and scribbles down his proposed order: Kobrick, Petroske, Dubois, and then finally Lagler, who’s probably the biggest talker and definitely the ringleader. Best to save him for last; the others are more or less disposable. He taps his pen against the paper until Numbers looks up from the transcript Chet had typed.

 _“Read my mind,”_  Numbers nods after glancing down the list.

Wrench grins, grateful they can continue planning without having to stop and have an argument, and for a moment Numbers’ face brightens as if it’s going to reciprocate the gesture. But something changes, and Numbers suddenly holds a cautious hand out, his lips parting and his eyes darting up and to the right as he listens.  _“Someone’s coming.”_  The cabin sits on a private road; there’s no mistaking this for passing traffic.

With a speed and lightness Wrench didn’t think his partner was capable of possessing after two bowls of heavy chowder, Numbers strides across the room and parts the thick curtains with his fingertips, his other hand at the gun on his hip. Finally, after several tense seconds of his heart hammering in his chest, Numbers’ body slackens. “Christ,” he breathes as he waves Wrench off, who is now standing as well and looking ready to throw down with whatever’s about to burst through the door.  _“It’s just Chet.”_

Wrench would have preferred trouble. His rigid posture deflates and he rolls his eyes and clears the mugs from the coffee table, only looking up again when a cold gust nips his ankles.

“Evenin’, fellas!” Chet beams a minute later, hanging his hat on the rack and then clapping a cold hand against Numbers’ shoulder, sending him lurching forward. “How are ya likin’ the place, kid? Cozy, right? Built it with my bare hands.” He holds them out as if to display the appendages that made their lodging possible.

“Cozy” isn’t the first or even the twentieth word Numbers would have chosen to describe the cabin, not with the six stuffed deer heads leering over him from every direction with their soulless, dead eyes. “It’s great,” he remarks after giving the nearest one an uneasy glance. “Thanks again for putting us up.”

“Not a problem, not a problem,” he replies, rubbing his hands together before finishing with a clap. “You and uh,—” Chet gestures to Numbers’ partner, at a loss.

“Mr. Wrench.”

“Wrench! That’s right. Been after that all day, just couldn’t remember,” Chet shakes his head, his gravelly laugh booming through the small living room. “But ya know, back in my day, we didn’t do this code name bullshit. Everybody knew everybody, like a big family.”

Numbers settles into one of the two armchairs, ignoring the puff of dust and waft of old cigarettes that gets kicked up. “Not the seventies anymore,” he shrugs, “it’s easier this way.” And now that he’s said it he supposes it’s true. Boss probably didn’t use anybody’s name, real or otherwise, for the same reason farmers don’t name their livestock. A name has a story, and with an expiration date attached to every relationship within the syndicate, it’s best not to get too close to your assets. They’re all lambs being sent to slaughter; he shakes the thought away. “You needed something from us?”

“Oh! Yeah, got somethin’ for ya, actually” Chet starts digging through his pockets, finally pulling out a folded sheet of paper and blindly passing it to a sour-looking Wrench. “Spent some time trackin’ Lagler today. Couldn’t follow him long, had errands to run for the missus, but I took down some places he went. And speakin’ of the missus,” he adds, “Diane wants to see ya. She’s keen on meetin’ your friend, too.”

Numbers frowns. “You told her I was in town?”

“’Course I did! She was excited to hear ya were passin’ through. Shoulda seen her face light up! She’s been talkin’ about you all day. Threw a pot roast in the oven and everythin’.”

Tempting as it may be to bail on the work he and Wrench have cut out for them this evening, to see Diane and spend a few hours reminiscing like an actual human being and not the removed, methodical asset he’s strived to become, he can’t bring himself to budge. “I don’t think so, Chet. We’ve got a lot of stuff to go over.” He nods towards the mess on the coffee table as if that’s enough evidence to the fact, except he knows he and Wrench could have a fresh body splayed out on the same table and Chet would  _still_  be trying to sell them on dinner or a drink or a trip to the damn bowling alley.

“Come on, kid! When’s the last time either of ya had a hot, home-cooked meal?” His eyes twinkle as he pulls out a pack of smokes, lighting one up. “Ya can’t live on diner food and takeout forever,” Chet insists, smoke pouring from his mouth. “Besides, Diane went to the library when I told her your friend was a deaf fella. Picked up a book about the sign language,” Chet crows, beaming with pride over his wife’s initiative while conveniently ignoring his own indifference to communicating with Wrench.

Tired of being left out of the loop and even more tired of Chet’s babbling, Wrench sets the paper on the coffee table with the others and waves for Numbers’ attention.  _“What’s he harping about?”_

 _“He and his wife want us over for dinner.”_

Wrench pulls a face. This job’s weird enough as it is, and he’s not about to pile meeting his partner’s surrogate parents onto the strangeness of it all. _“I’ll pass.”_

Numbers shakes his head. _“Look, I don’t wanna go either. But Chet’s working this with us now, whether we like it or not. Part of the job. Part of working with him.”_

 _“He’s not working with us!”_ Wrench exclaims, his unkempt bangs falling into his line of sight. _“He’s an informant and he’s done his job. He should be out of the picture, taking his old man pills and bothering other people who aren’t us.”_

Numbers holds his hands up to fend off Wrench’s objections. “Alright, alright, damn.” He turns to Chet, who doesn’t look confused at this interaction as much as he looks mildly entertained, like he’s watching a baseball game in the seventh inning stretch. “He said he’s not hungry—”

 _“And let Chet know his cabin smells awful,”_  Wrench interjects from his spot in the adjacent armchair,  _“like stale cigarettes and feet.”_

Numbers has to clench his jaw to keep a laugh from escaping, the effort sending prickles of pain through his bruised chin. It halfway pisses him off, just like every other time Wrench makes him laugh despite whatever frustrations lie under his skin in that instant, even if Wrench is more often than not the one causing said frustrations to begin with. “So tell Diane thanks, but we’ll take a rain check. I don’t want her seeing me like this, anyway,” he admits, pointing to his taped lip.

“Already got that covered, don’t cha worry!” he chimes, pleased that he has a story locked and loaded for the excuse he saw coming a mile away. “Told her the two of ya broke up a squabble in a bar. She’s seen ya worse off, anyhow. Saw ya right after that Polack broke your nose in ’92! Remember that, Numbers?” he says, barely able to finish his question for snickering.

Of course Chet can find humor in the memory. He wasn’t the one who needed his nose popped back into place by a doctor with dirty hands in an even dirtier motel room.

At Numbers’ silence, Chet presses, “Come on, kid! Don’t make me beg!” He brings his hands together as if he’s praying. “Maybe ask Mr. Wrench again, and put sugar on it.”

Numbers sighs heavily, turning to Wrench and drawing his hands.  _“He’s not gonna leave unless we go with him.”_

Wrench states his obvious feelings. _“I don’t like him.”_ When Numbers nods indifferently, he asks, _“Do **you** even like him?”_

At first, Numbers doesn’t answer, only shrugs. He eventually decides on, _“It’s complicated,”_ a loaded statement if there ever was one. _“We have a lot of history.”_

_“He’s obnoxious,”_ Wrench gripes. _“Loud.”_

Wrench isn’t wrong, but Numbers’ face screws up with confusion over his observation.  _“How do you know he’s loud?”_

 _“The way he talks. How wide his mouth opens when he laughs,”_  Wrench shrugs, his own mouth tight.  _“His posture, how he moves. Big gestures. Lots of pointing. Loud for the sake of being loud.”_

Numbers nods, ignoring Chet’s sudden bout of overblown hacking that lends more evidence to Wrench’s point.  _“Look, let’s just get this over with. I’ll keep Chet in check. An hour—two, tops.”_  When Wrench makes another face he hastily tacks on,  _“You’ll like D-I-A-N-E. She’s nothing like Chet. Kind. Polite. Quiet,”_ he assures him, after a beat. _“You’ll like her.”_

After staring blankly at Numbers’ imploring expression he finally, more out of hunger for something besides a peanut butter and jelly sandwich than a benevolent act of acquiescence, swipes,  _“Fine,”_  and throws a glare at Chet.  _“I’ll get my coat.”_

~~~~

“Now remember, you’re runnin’ a car dealership in Fargo,” Chet reminds Numbers as they pull onto his street. “Told her you’re in town to close a business deal before the new year. And Wrench here is your silent partner.”

As Chet’s roaring chuckle over his own lame joke fills the vehicle, Numbers snaps, “That’s not funny.” He can feel Wrench shifting in the backseat, annoyed and uncomfortable. The most Numbers can offer him is another apology and the assurance that they’ll try to take their leave as soon as they can.

 _“It’ll be nice to have a real dinner,”_ Wrench admits with a halfhearted shrug as the car rolls up the driveway. It had been years—years that felt like eons—since he’d sat down to a home-cooked meal. Shame that Chet has to be here to ruin it.

“Tell Diane not to use my name,” Numbers stresses to the old man with an edge of uneasiness. The boundaries between “personal” and “professional” are extremely blurred as it is with this dinner situation and Chet being a presence in general, and there’s absolutely no need to jump over the line entirely. “I don’t care what you tell her the reason is, just tell her to use ‘Numbers,’ ok?”

“Calm down, give me a little credit here,” he states, his hand shooing Numbers out of the car.

Once inside, Numbers marvels at how time hasn’t had much of an effect on Chet’s home. The entryway’s walls are covered in the same daisy wallpaper, there’s the same spoon collection mounted to the wall in the dining room, and the same dusty books overflow from the bookshelves opposite the stairs. Even the Christmas decorations hanging sporadically throughout the entryway are familiar. He turns back towards the door to check something and…yes, the miniature Santa embedded in the wreath is still missing the puff from his hat. For all his time away it’s amazing how quickly such little things come flooding back, whether he wants them to or not.

Wrench looks around for a moment before glancing at Numbers, watching waves of familiarity crash over his face. He shuffles his weight from foot to foot, feeling out of place and dreading the moment when either Chet or Diane pull Numbers away and leave him behind with the remainder, resorting to passing a notebook filled with forced, awkward conversation back and forth.

“Chet? Honey? Is that you?” a husky voice calls from the kitchen, wafting into the front hallway and accompanied by a myriad of delicious smells.

“Hey, angel!” Chet responds, half in the coat closet with Wrench and Numbers’ jackets. “Got some guests with me!”

At that, Diane bursts through the archway leading to the kitchen, a willowy, graying wisp in a flowing green dress. Numbers had worried that she would look worse for wear after fighting off the cancer, but if anything she looks stronger, more full of life than ever. “I can’t believe it’s you!” she rejoices as soon as her eyes fall on Numbers, her arms extending to pull him into a tight, jubilant hug. “And right before Christmas, no less! It’s a miracle, a miracle…”

Numbers, not having to think twice, hugs her right back and plants a soft kiss on her cheek. It feels like coming home should probably feel, not the bitter concoction of resentment and anxiety he has to swallow when he returns to his actual hometown on those increasingly few and far between occasions. “It’s good to be back,” he mumbles into her hair, thankful he’s facing away from Wrench to hide the hint of shine in his eyes. Part of him wishes he hadn’t agreed to come, at least with his partner, just in case Diane slips up and Wrench reads Numbers’ name on her lips at some point in the evening. But he would have felt guilty as sin leaving him behind, stuck in that musty old cabin with a TV-less TV dinner while he’s here eating pot roast and freshly-baked cookies.

“And you!” Diane says, finally releasing Numbers after several moments of cooing over how handsome he looks and turning to Wrench, who’s stuffed against an end table in the cramped entryway and looking as uneasy as he feels. She smiles, warm as ever, and holds up her right hand, spelling with excruciating slowness,  _“D-I-A-N-E.”_ She points to herself, nodding enthusiastically.

Whatever expectations Wrench held for this evening were met and exceeded in that single instant, and a tentative, gentle smile overtakes his lips.  _“W-R-E-N-C-H,”_  he spells back, just as slowly, though with each letter Diane appears more and more confused.

“Wrench?” she finally asks, and at his nod her smile reappears.  _“Nice…to…meet…you.”_

She’s clearly been practicing, and despite the statement being in English order Wrench appreciates her effort; it’s the most exertion a stranger’s put forth to talk to him in ages. _“Same,”_ he says, then spells the gesture’s meaning for her and signs it again.

Before Wrench can process what’s happening next, he’s being pulled into a warm hug of his own.

~~~~

At first it had been strange, almost surreal. Wrench hadn’t held an actual conversation with someone outside of the syndicate in a long time, and that was a difficult truth to swallow. Ordering coffee doesn’t count, and neither does informing a sales associate at the mall about what shoe size he needed. He wasn’t sure what would have been worse, coming into this scenario: not being able to recall how to talk to another person without murder or other sordid topics weaving its way into the discussion, or not having anything interesting to say. Either way, he expected it to be disastrous.

But somewhere between his third helping of mashed potatoes and the fifteenth or sixteenth time Diane passed his notebook back across the table to him, Wrench is able to admit to himself that he’s immensely glad he came along. The food’s good but Diane’s even better, considerate and patient and bright, and he wonders if Numbers likes her as much as he does because she’s everything his mother should have been to him. It’s certainly a thought that’s been crossing Wrench’s mind for the past twenty minutes, regarding his own relationship with his mother: maybe if he had a Diane in his life growing up he would have stood a chance at becoming someone halfway decent, an accountant or a real estate agent or something else equally normal and boring.

 _Would you mind showing me the sign for “Christmas?”_  Diane had written, her fourth tutoring request after asking how to say “family,” “Minnesota,” and “snow.”  _I’m sorry if it’s rude to keep asking these things. Please tell me if you’d rather not waste your night showing an old woman how to sign._ She had ended the message with an image of a smiling face.

Wrench’s hiss of a polite chuckle at that is barely heard over Numbers and Chet’s conversation, which has been hovering somewhere on the cusp of “passive-aggressive” and “active-aggressive” for at least five minutes. He notes that Diane doesn’t seem put off by (what he assumes is) either man’s increasing tone and their progressively more pointed gestures, or their elbows and hands bumping the table with more and more severity; despite having to sternly chide one or both men every couple minutes or so, she seems almost nostalgic over it all, as if she missed hearing the badgering remarks and defeated grumbles Chet and Numbers lobbed back and forth across the dinner table like ping pong balls.

 _It’s no problem,_ he writes while chewing through a mouthful of corn. _You’re a good student. There are a lot of signs for Christmas - depends on where you’re from. I’ll show you the two I know, and how to say “Christmas tree.”_ He slides the pad back to Diane, wondering how this seemingly infinitely sweet woman could stand to share a single dinner, let alone her entire life, with a buffoon like Chet.

“Ya know, not for nothin’, you’re lookin’ real sharp nowadays,” Chet says, waggling his fork at Numbers and attempting to calm the storm he stirred minutes earlier. He glances at his wife, who’s busy steadily repeating the second sign for Christmas. His eyes mischievously crinkle as he grins, looking from Wrench back to his wife. “Remember, Diane? Last time we saw him he was dressed like Mr. Wrench, here,” he says, swirling his bread roll in cold gravy remnants and chuckling. “Guy looks like he fell head-first into the dollar bin at the Goodwill.”

Diane gasps, abandoning her lesson and looking scandalized. “Chet!”

“What?”

Numbers slaps his hand against the table, sitting up. “What’d I just tell you, man? Don’t talk about him like he’s not here!”

Wrench frowns, looking to Numbers for the reason he made the silverware jump.

 _“Don’t worry about it,”_  Numbers waves, but the scowl he bares only makes Wrench more curious, even if he knows the explanation is some variant of “Chet’s being a jackass.”

“Honestly, Chet…” scolds Diane, jotting down the latest in a long and storied history of apologies on her oblivious husband’s behalf.

~~~~

 _I know it seems like they’re always at each other, but Chet cares for your friend very much,_ Diane writes after Chet drags Numbers out to the garage for post-dinner cigars, Numbers already a bit tipsy on brandy and making faces of mock-distress to Wrench, only allowing himself to be led out of the living room after he gets a decent laugh out of his partner. Wrench writes a mental note to himself: whiskey bad, brandy good. _We don’t have any children of our own, you see,_ she continues, _and “Numbers” is the closest we’ve ever had to a son._

Wrench frowns at the quotations around his partner’s codename. Like it’s not real, like it’s just a concept, an abstract something born from the ashes of the man Numbers used to be, the man Diane knew. It shouldn’t bother him this much, he realizes, for a lot of reasons, the main one obviously being that he and Numbers are still strangers in many ways. This past week with him has seemed so long, and it’s not even finished, but he can’t shake the feeling that the man he’s been working with since last Saturday is the same man with a proper, normal name on his driver’s license and birth certificate, that the man he’s gotten to know is one in the same with the person Diane grew so fond of over half a decade ago.

 _I’ll make sure he visits you more often,_ Wrench promises. _He’s had a rough week, but he’s happy now._ For all the griping his hands and lips took part in on the ride here, Numbers really did seem in his element tonight.

Diane’s face lights up when she reads Wrench’s response, outshining the twinkling white lights on the Christmas tree across the room. _Yes, please nudge him in my direction as often as you can! I don’t want to nag him into visiting. I know he’s busy, owning his own business now, but I miss him tremendously. He’s a stubborn one, but you might be good for him._ She pauses, chews on the pen cap. _He needs a friend like you in his life, somebody to look out for him._

At that, Wrench finds himself at a loss for words, though he certainly agrees.

~~~~

Numbers tentatively puffs on his cigar and fights back a cough. He’s never been much for the things, but since he quit smoking he seems to have lost what little taste he had for them, altogether. “We’re moving in on Kobrick tomorrow,” he comments, as casually as if he were mentioning a trip to the department store.

“On Christmas Eve?” Chet asks. “That’s a bit cold, don’t cha think? Can’t give the guy one last Christmas?”

“It's all the same to him, probably,” Numbers waves, ashes dropping onto the cement floor. “We’ve got it figured out. Slip into his house, execute the fucker.” He mimes pointing a gun and firing it, taking a large swig of brandy with his other hand and relishing the slow burn travelling down his chest, warming him better than the small kerosene heater between them. “We’ll be gone before anybody can piece together what happened.”

Chet chuckles, the palm of his hand rubbing against his rosy, stubbly cheek. “Ya gonna be alright, out there with that fella? Can’t imagine how useful he’d be if things went south.”

Numbers might not be quick to many things in his current state, but he’s right on top of Chet’s comment, and not in the half-playful tone he kept during dinner, either. “Fuck you! You don't know what you're talking about, Chet.”

Chet seems genuinely surprised at this outburst. “Whoa! Where’s this comin’ from?”

“I want you to apologize to him.”

“For what?” Chet balks.

He wants to point, use his hands to talk, and to keep himself from spilling his drink he roughly sets it down on a toolbox with a _clank_. “You know for what,” he snarls, jabbing a finger into Chet’s face. “You’ve been treating him like he’s nothing, like he’s not even here, like he’s some kind of idiot who can’t put together the shit you’re saying.”

At this, Chet’s taken aback, as if the idea that Wrench _could_ , in fact, pick up on what was happening around him was brand new information. “Ah, shit, kid. I’m sorry ‘bout all that.”

Numbers can hardly believe that Chet could be so capable as a criminal yet so fucking clueless as a human being, in general. “No, not to me! To him! You’re gonna tell _him_ that.”

He holds the cigar between his teeth, scratching his head. “How?”

Numbers waggles his fingers in front of him, his eyes no longer burning. “I’ll show you.”

~~~~

_“Sorry. For being…a complete…asshole…”_

Well. There’s no way Chet would have agreed to admitting that in everyday conversation, let alone as part of an apology. From across the room, Numbers winks to Wrench and smirks like the piece of work he is.

Wrench keeps his composure, looking up at Chet from behind his bangs for a beat before eventually standing. _“Thank you.”_ He offers the guy a hand for him to shake although, if he’s being honest, he’s only doing this for Numbers’ sake.

“Uhhh…”

“Chet, he wasn’t blowing you a kiss, he was thanking you.”

“Right, right,” he says, looking relieved and shaking with Wrench as Diane sweeps back into the room.

“Before you boys go, I have something for each of you. I wish they were nicer, but I didn’t have a lot of time. Chet only told me this morning that you were here. Oh, well. Merry Christmas!” she cheers, handing each of them a thin, square, wrapped box. Wrench looks at his like he doesn’t know what to do with it—the only Christmas gift he’s gotten in years has been his bonus from the syndicate. _“A gift!”_ Diane signs, or, tries to sign; Wrench is more than willing to forgive her for not understanding her signing spaces.

Numbers has already torn off the paper and opened his box by the time Wrench finally begins to carefully peel away the tape on his own, and Numbers holds up, politely, a green beanie cap that Diane has clearly knitted.

“Try it on!” Diane requests as Chet slips his arm around her shoulder, brimming with pride.

It’s a tossup between what looks worse on Numbers: the color or the style. He thinks Wrench’s cap looks nicer, a solid baby blue with neater trimming than his. Wrench pulls his on and the men look at each other, Numbers trying not to laugh at how the hat flattens Wrench’s shaggy bangs over his eyes, impeding his vision, and Wrench visibly touched by Diane’s gesture.

 _“Thank you, thank you,”_ Wrench signs, feeling like he could repeat the gesture a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough for everything she’s done in just a few short hours.

Diane looks the men over, clasping her hands in front of her chin. “You both look so handsome.”

~~~~

After the long goodbyes, after the taxi ride back to the cottage, after Numbers pounds back three beers and after Wrench tells a string of exponentially filthier jokes, Numbers staggers into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take one last, hard look at himself before he returns to the sofa. If he hadn’t had so much to drink, maybe he would mind Wrench securing the sole bedroom for himself a little less.

On second thought, though, he knows he would mind all the same.

He leaves the bathroom, set on giving Wrench some good-natured shit regarding their sleeping situation, but as he turns towards the bedroom he catches him, through the just-ajar-enough door, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at his hands that grasp the cap Diane made for him.

Numbers watches Wrench as he continues to sit there, holding the soft hat and running his thumb along the folds. He feels like he should look away, like he’s seeing something incredibly private that Wrench would never want him to witness, like maybe he would throw a punch at him again if he knew he was being spied on, but it’s as if Numbers is glued to the spot and with his eyes pried open.

He could have been standing there for minutes or hours, time was nothing through the haze of brandy and beer. But finally, finally, Wrench tucks the cap away, gently smoothes it out as he lays it down in his bag, then covers it with one of his grubby t-shirts like a dog burying a bone. A secret just for him, a treasure he must protect from the other wolves in the pack.

Numbers lies awake for awhile, staring out the window to the waning moon, wondering what other treasures Wrench protects, what else he holds on to.


End file.
